


Living in Fame

by superblackmarket



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU - rock band, M/M, daryl still bangs the drums michonne sings glenn on guitar and tara on bass, manager rick still has a lip ring, this is punk rockers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superblackmarket/pseuds/superblackmarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There was something wrong with him, a little piece of ice wedged deep in his heart, and he never really contemplated the possibility of a thaw until the first time he and Rick looked at each other, really looked, and each saw something he needed reflected in the other’s eyes.</em>
</p><p>On the road to rock'n'roll, there's a lot of wreckage in the ravine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living in Fame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [niroa](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=niroa).
  * Inspired by [cutting my hands up every time i touch you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4504359) by [maranhig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maranhig/pseuds/maranhig). 



> This was completely 100% inspired by maranhig (niroa)'s fantastic rock band AU CUTTING UP MY HANDS EVERY TIME I TOUCH YOU, which you must all go read immediately if you haven't already. This isn't a sequel or anything - I'm just riffing on her premise because I enjoyed it that much.

Blaring from every college radio station, from every club and sound system and ghettoblaster _but_ _nobody had those anymore did they?_ – everywhere, that beat, that groove, that tripping baseline… Having a hit single was peculiar. Having a hit single with his name on it was surreal.

Hadn’t known he was writing a song, just turned up at the studio one morning, asscrack of dawn and sleepless, hours before the others would trickle in. A rhythm in his head he just couldn’t kick. So he laid down a track and bashed it out – _one two, one two three four!_ – just a simple bass-snare up-down beat, accentuated with some closed hi-hat flourishes. Style had never been his thing, hit the drums and hit em hard, that was all that counted. At half-past seven he threw down the bass, using a hefty Fender Precision that somebody had left behind and shredding his fingertips on the heavy root-fifth punk lines, all he could manage on the unfamiliar instrument, really. Nine a.m. and still no sign of the others so he lit up and wandered over to the piano and slammed out some chords like he was trying to break the hammers. He scrambled up and switched off the tape when he heard his bandmates approaching. For the next couple hours they dicked around with some of their new stuff, and it wasn’t til they broke for lunch that he found the balls to mumble there was this tune he’d been messing with… Their reaction, loud and unanimous, made his face burn with suppressed pleasure. It was a _song_ , they said, no need to re-record anything, Glenn was already hearing the guitar part in his head and Michonne said she had _just_ the lyric. And that was it, the whole thing wrapped by the end of the day.

He got the credit for it, Michonne insisted. Most of their songs ran Gurira/Rhee ( _Lennon/McCartney Jagger/Richards Strummer/Jones_ ) because the two of them were the brains of the operation, whilst him and Tara comprised a ragtag rhythm section better known for its volume and ferocity than its technical precision. But this song would be Dixon/Gurira, and he felt a muted flash of pride every time he saw the byline. Then, out of nowhere, the fucking thing blew up like the Fourth of July – and _they_ blew up too, propelled from the underground into _Rolling Stone_ ’s Band to Watch, _Pitchfork_ ’s Best New Music, _NME_ ’s Track of the Week. Well, fuck.

Then there had to be a music video, and the band was going to be filmed playing in front of a disused oil derrick. He was in a foul mood, he hadn’t realized they had to actually _be_ _in_ the video, lipsynching to their own song like fucking _Top of the Pops_ – so he turned up to the shoot still wearing the oil-stained boilersuit he wore at the garage. (So what if he didn’t need his day job anymore, he fucking liked it.) Michonne, Glenn and Tara – in their camo pants and motley surplus, slightly less grizzled versions of Dennis Hopper in _Apocalypse Now_ – laughed themselves silly at the sight of him, skulking off to the side with a cigarette drooping from his lips. At last Morgan, the taciturn British filmmaker hired to direct the video, called him out: “Daryl, you look like a sewer mechanic. And don’t forget film lasts forever, so if you look like a cunt today, you’ll look like one forever.” Well fine, if you put it that way; he sloped off to change. Rick had turned up somewhere amidst all that and followed him back to the tour bus. He heard him all right, just chose to ignore him. So when Rick’s arms came round him from behind as he rummaged through his duffel bag, he didn’t jump. Just absently ground his ass into the other man’s pelvis as he pulled out his Dennis Hopper duds. Rick sweetened the deal considerably over the next five minutes, and he emerged from the bus if not enthusiastic then at least invigorated, _let’s rock this fucken casbah._

 

xxx

 

They each had their own thing, Michonne with her jazz, Glenn fallen hard for hip hop (Daryl had taken to calling him Whack Attack when he picked up a flat bill cap), Tara with her folksy acoustic stuff, and him with his old school rhythm’n’blues. So it was Howlin Wolf drifting though his headphones as he lay crammed against Michonne in the tiny bunk, the tour bus lurching its way north to Minneapolis.

Rick would meet them there, flying up the following day. And then him and Rick would fuck, probably. They hadn’t, yet, because the first time nobody had condoms and they hadn’t been tested; the second time Glenn interrupted them, mercifully too drunk to realize what he was interrupting; the third time it turned out Rick had gonorrhea (he’d laughed and laughed, the _clap_ , while Rick hunched in the bathroom, trying to take a piss through the burning pain). So they’d been jacking each other for weeks now, and Rick had sucked him a few times ( _his_ results came back clean). There was kissing now, too, which meant it wasn’t just about the sex, and he was okay with that.

“’Chonne.” He pulled off his headphones, nudged her.  

“Yeah?” Shoulda known she’d be awake, too.

“Don’t think I’m up for it, the interview.” They were supposed to go on the radio when they arrived that morning. But he hated interviews, never could think of a damn thing to say, couldn’t translate how he felt about music into words. And questions were addressed to him now, since their tune had charted a couple weeks ago, asking how he’d come up with it, if he was going to take a more active songwriting role in the future. Fucked if he knew. His tongue turned into a lead balloon and the best he could manage was a noncommittal grunt.

“That’s fine.” Michonne rolled over on her side to face him. “We’ll tell them you’re under the weather.” Michonne, she always understood, never fished for explanations. And she was beautifully articulate, best if she did the talking anyway.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Light fingers combed the hair back from his forehead. “Ready to see Rick?” she said, because of course she knew, she knew everything.

He shrugged. “’M fine.”

She stared at him, fathomless dark eyes. “I wanna write another song with you,” she said, not what he’d expected.

“Side project?” he snorted, folding his arms behind his head.

“Just for fun,” she said. “We wouldn’t have to record.”

After she fell asleep he made his way to the front of the bus to annoy Tyreese. The driver groaned at the sight of him, _you’re a damn pain in the ass man,_ and said he had no problem keeping himself awake, thanks anyway, but Daryl fiddled with the radio dial, ditching whatever weird talk show thing Tyreese had been enjoying and finding the oldies channel. But no sooner had the Ry Cooder tune wrapped when the Smiths, the fucking _Smiths_ , came on. “ _Fuck_ no,” he said when Tyreese protested _I like this one, asshole,_ “aintcha got better things ta do than cry inta your cornflakes?”

They were just crossing the state line – _Thank You for Visiting Tennessee/Welcome to Missouri_ – when they heard sirens, glimpsed the flashing lights in the rearview mirror. “Shit,” Ty said, pulling over. They hadn’t been speeding, not really, but if the cops searched the bus, they were fucked. The roadies had weed, there was a _bag_ of it lying round somewhere, and then of course there was his crossbow, along for the ride but only registered in the state of Georgia. His collection of knives, too, the dartboard was full of them, Bowie knives and ratchet knives and switchblades. Oh, and that air rifle a crazy fan had gifted him at the last gig, they all thought it was hilarious at the time…

He was screwed, good and proper. He’d probably spend the next five years in prison, sharing a cell with his brother and not fucking Rick Grimes in Minneapolis.

Tyreese opened the door and the cops, a pair of fat fucks, came aboard. “You were fifteen miles over the speed limit,” one of them intoned severely, while the other sniffed like a bloodhound, probably hoping to catch a whiff of pot on the air, the bastard.

“We’ll have to conduct a search,” the first cop said. “Is there anything you would prefer to declare upfront?”

Him and Ty exchanged tense glances. “Wouldn’t do that if I was you,” he heard himself saying.

“And why’s that?” The cop got all up in his face.

“Dontcha know who’s asleep back there, dumbass?” he said and, in a flash of inspiration, answered his own question. “ _Dolly Parton_ , man, this is Dolly Parton’s tour bus.”

“Dolly _Parton_?” the cops chorused, while behind him Ty made a muffled sound of amusement or fright.

“That’s the one,” he said, real smooth. “You really gonna drag _Dolly Parton_ outta her bed at two in the morning?”

Of course they weren’t. Suddenly respectful, the cops passed on their regards to the Queen of Country and wished them a safe journey. After they’d driven off in their squad car, he smirked over at Tyreese. “Gotta keep a cool head, man,” he said, like he hadn’t been dragged, drunk and shouting himself hoarse, from countless altercations during their early wild years on the road. As if punk rock was any kinda excuse. But they’d all done some growing up, and now Michonne had her son and Glenn was married to Maggie and Tara had always kept a cool fucking head and he - … A little better socialized, maybe, but still the same mangy sonuvabitch with nowt to his name but a steady trigger finger and a keen sense of rhythm.

Gloomy now, even though Ty was still riding high on their escape. He flipped through the CDs and settled on Nina Simone. He never traveled anywhere without Nina Simone. All that pain and suffering in her voice – he knew it wasn’t for him, redneck asshole that he was, but when she sang _some day, we’ll get it together and we’ll get it all done, some day, when your head is much lighter_ his eyes stung and he knew she’d felt the strap across her back, same as him.

 

xxx

 

“ _That one, Daryl wrote the whole thing himself_ ,” Michonne was saying. “ _It’s definitely a musical breakthrough for the band, fusing styles we’d never really experimented with before, going beyond what you’d call ‘punk rock.’_ ”

He was pacing the hotel room, chainsmoking, listening to his bandmates on the radio. He’d taken the precaution of taping a plastic bag over the smoke detector (there was no smoking fucking _anywhere_ these days), but he’d probably get them kicked out of the hotel anyway, same he’d done so many times in the past. Once, on their first tour (years before Rick came on as manager, he was still a rockstar in his own right with the Kings then), him and Glenn and Michonne and some of the crew had been smoking pot in a hotel room (Texas, maybe?) when T-Dog (he was still around then) had come running to say the police were on their way. Well, they’d tossed all the drugs and paraphernalia out the window in a great flailing panic whilst Maggie (she and Glenn had just begun dating) sprayed perfume everywhere to mask the ganja fumes. Just before the cops busted in, he flung himself on the bed and flipped open the complimentary bible and started reading at random. Unusual sight they must have been, punk rockers having a lil bible study: _And the Lord said unto –_ what seems to be the problem, officers? He was feeling pretty smug til one of the cops noticed a tiny amount of bud nestled right in the crown of his hat. Fucking idiot. He had to pay a big fucking fine, too, to stay out of jail.

“ _We’re recording the next album in bits and pieces._ ” That was Glenn. “ _While we’re on the road, we’ll hop into the nearest studio and try to bang out a demo or two. We’ll probably record here in Minneapolis, if we have the time.”_

Rick let himself into the room. “Went straight from the airport to the station,” he said without preamble. “You weren’t there.”

“Yeah. I opted out.” He picked at the blood blister on his left forefinger. Rick looked pissed, full of storm-clouds.

Just then, Tara’s voice on the radio: “ _Unfortunately Daryl wasn’t feeling well, so he thought it would be better to rest before tonight’s show._ ”

“That true?” Annoyance made way for concern.

“Nope. Jus’ didn’t feel like it.”

“ _Well, I know we’re all wishing him a speedy recovery,_ ”the DJ said. “ _Luckily, I have a clip from an old interview ready to go. For our listeners, this is Daryl Dixon discussing his greatest influences._ ”

The interviewer was asking him about his favorite drummers, he vaguely remembered that conversation, and he cringed at the sound of his own mumbling drawl. “ _Yeah, uh sure. I guess I like Max Roach, ya know, the guy who invented bebop? An’ Tony Williams, he um, he first played with Miles Davis. Oh, an’ Topper Headon, yeah that mother[BLEEP]er, he was like the human drum machine. Janet Weiss, too, she hits those skins harder’n anybody out there. An’ that drummer for the Slits, can’t remember her name, Spanish chick…_ ”

He switched off the radio, his cheeks burning. _Can’t remember her name, Spanish chick…_ Michonne, she gave him a tongue-lashing for that later, _way to sound like a chauvinist pig, Daryl_ she said. 

“Don’t laugh,” he told Rick, shamefaced. “Was probly drunk, anyway.”

“Haven’t seen you in days.” Rick hadn’t been paying attention. “Not since I sucked your dick to make you play nice for the video.” He looked good in his slim black jeans; even as a manager Rick was more rock’n’roll than he, Daryl, could ever hope to be. Rick worried his lip ring with his tongue, and he remembered, god yes he remembered, just how damn _sensual_ that bit of metal felt against his skin when Rick put his mouth on him.

“Ya seen it?”

“Morgan’s pieced together a rough cut. You guys look great.”

“Bet we look like cunts.” And Rick scowled at him. How did you get from awkwardly maneuvering round each other to fucking, or at least kissing? He was shit at this, overcoming his aversion to touch (at least as far as Rick was concerned) was only the first hurdle, now he was alone with the man and there was no booze so how did he _start_? _Make a move, Dixon._ “Gonorrhea all cleared up, then?” he said artlessly, and immediately cursed himself.

Rick’s scowl deepened. “I’m clean now,” he said grumpily. “Don’t see what’s so fucking funny about it.”

“’S just, it’s the fucken _clap_ , man,” he snickered. “Merle usedta get it near-on every month, all them hookers.”

“There were no _hookers_ ,” Rick insisted. “Probably got it from Lori and Shane, I’m sure of it.”

“How’re the kids?” He changed the subject, didn’t want Shane insinuating himself between them. “Carl? Asskicker?”

Rick’s face softened. “Judy can almost walk by herself,” he said fondly. “She’s got this little shopping cart that she pushes around. And Carl… he’s still after me, wants to come on tour with us.”

“He’d cool on it real fast. Aint a whole lotta debauchery anymore, mostly boring as fuck these days.” He remembered the last tour, Michonne had just split with Mike and so Andre came with them. Nothing rock’n’roll about being kept awake every night by a screaming baby, or helping Michonne with her breast pump, forty-five minute sessions operating that damn mechanism while she cursed him out because he was there and Mike wasn’t. Sure brought them closer, though, and sometimes he almost thought… But there was something wrong with him, a little piece of ice wedged deep in his heart, and he never really contemplated the possibility of a thaw until the first time he and Rick looked at each other, really _looked_ , and each saw something he needed reflected in the other’s eyes.

“I’m real happy for you,” Rick said abruptly.

“Huh?”

“All this.” Rick waved his arms around. “The song. The press. Both shows at First Avenue are sold out, and Eugene says the line for cancellations is already around the block. My phone’s ringing off the hook, everybody wants an interview. Rag & Bone wants you to model for their fall ad campaign.”

“Hell no,” he said at once, and then his brain caught up. “Jealous?” he said softly, chancing a step closer.

“No. _No_.” Rick sighed heavily. “Of course I am. Been there, remember? And it was nice, feeling so wanted all the time. Wouldn’t do it again, but it’s a head-fuck, watching it all happen again, but to somebody else this time.”

“I hate it,” he said. “I’d go back to playin shitty basement clubs in a heartbeat an’ nobody knowin my name. Woulda left months ago, weren’t for ’Chonne an’ the others. Can’t stand livin this way, out in the open.”

“But the music – everyone’s heard your song-”

“Aint about that.” He shook his head. “For me, was only ever an out so’s I wouldn’t end up like Merle. Aint no artist. Don’t feel it in my bones, the way ’Chonne and Glenn do, way you did.”

“But –” Rick still didn’t get it.

“Uh uh.” He shook his head. “Hear myself on the radio, an’ I sound like a goddamn illiterate. See myself on the TV, an’ I’m twitchin and stammerin like a junkie on parole. People are laughin, Rick, they’re fucken laughin, an’ I’m the goddamn joke.”

“I would never laugh at you,” Rick said, so seriously that he felt the ghost of a smile cross his face.

“I know,” he said.

“Got you something.” Rick tossed him a small parcel which, when unwrapped, turned out to be golfer’s gloves.

“You takin me golfin? Cos, Rick –”

“No. Jesus. I saw how bad those blisters were getting on your left hand. Cut the fingers out and wear those when you play – trick from one of our first drummers with the Kings.”

“Cool.” That was thoughtful. Really thoughtful.

“So I’ve been thinking about how we should do this,” Rick said, like he was resuming a conversation they’d already begun. “Only just realized how nervous I am.”

“Man, I been shittin myself,” he said, dizzy with relief. Seldom had the prospect of _talking_ been so welcome. “Whole time, the bus ride north –”

Rick chuckled, and his eyes were brighter than they’d been a moment ago. He ran a hand through his wavy hair, trace of silver at the temples, and Daryl’s eyes automatically followed the movement. He reached out his own hand and smoothed over the curls Rick had absentmindedly rumpled. Rick leaned into the touch and that was when he pulled away, shaking his head.

“Don’t know how I’m sposedta,” he said, because it had felt weird, unnatural, like something someone would do in a movie. The previous times there had been an adrenaline rush, a sprint for the nearest empty room, then flies ripped open and hands shoved down the fronts of jeans, already coming before his brain caught up. But this time they were just two people staring at each other in an empty hotel room.

Rick sat on the bed and after a moment he sat beside him, feeling hyperaware of everything – the temperature of the room, Rick’s hands folded loosely between his knees, the heavy scent of tobacco making the air stuffy, his dick aching in his pants –

“’M hard for you,” he said, cos it seemed like somebody should say something.

“Really?” And Rick beamed at him, flushed all pink and cherubic.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Rick, ya really make my motor run,” he said drily. “Wanna feel?”

Rick did, so he guided Rick’s hand to his thigh and let him do the rest.

They took off all their clothes, cos for once there was no one to bust in on them. Rick had already seen his scars and woken him from enough nightmares that he didn’t mind lying on his stomach as Rick kissed down his spine and latched onto his hip with tongue and teeth. But then he flipped them over and took Rick’s cock in his mouth, cos he could do that now. “Oh Jesus fuck,” Rick groaned, rough and low. “Daryl.” So even though it was his first time and he didn’t know much more than _keep your teeth covered_ , he took this as encouragement. His eyes were watering but he liked swallowing Rick deep in his throat, liked how it made Rick writhe and buck his hips upwards. And when the moment came he found he _wanted_ Rick to come in his mouth so he sucked him through his orgasm and swallowed, the unfamiliar taste heavy on his tongue. As soon as Rick could see clear again he returned the favor and it didn’t take long, it didn’t take long at all, the chilly kiss of the lip ring sending shivers down his spine. So they didn’t end up fucking after all, but they were still naked and tangled in each other and finally he felt like he could breathe proper again.

“How was it?” Michonne whispered at soundcheck, dark eyes dancing.

He looked out past the stage into the empty house, where Rick was standing, arms akimbo and hip jutting out, arguing with Eugene and Abraham. The color rushed to his face and he ducked his head, but he’d pumped her damn breast milk for fuckssake so he managed to whisper back, “Not quite ‘it’ yet. But good, ’Chonnie, real good.”

“Good,” she said, and gave him a sly little wink.

His drum tech, Noah, finished assembling the kit and he took his place behind it, twirling his sticks. Soundcheck was his favorite part of the day, just Michonne and Tara and Glenn and him banging out whatever they felt like, no audience, no stakes, just the four of them jamming together like they used to do in Glenn’s basement before they even had a name for the band. Plus he usually got to pick the tunes, seeing as how he was the _one two three four_ man and all, and today he sent them straight into “Louie Louie”and then The Clash’s punky version of “Pressure Drop” and finally Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” At one point he looked up and Rick was smiling back at him; he’d stopped arguing to listen. So he hit the skins extra hard and did something flashy with the cymbals at the end, just showing off.

 

xxx

 

The show, at Minneapolis’s historic First Ave venue, was one of their best ever. A packed house of screaming fans who never stopped dancing or jumping or pogoing or whatever the hell it was they were doing, sloshing beer everywhere and howling for more. The band played a hard, fast set, saving him and Michonne’s tune for the final encore, when the fans were all frenzied up that _they weren’t gonna play the fucking song._

They left the stage sweaty and triumphant. Rick was waiting in the wings and he went right for him, knotting his fingers in Rick’s shirt and dragging him away. And by some miracle his motorcycle was there waiting for him in the alley. It traveled in one of the equipment vans when he wasn’t riding it and somebody, probably Noah, had parked it here for his escape, knowing he didn’t like crowds. He’d have to make sure that kid got a raise – cos now Rick was on the bike behind him, arms locked round his waist and clinging like a barnacle as he navigated the dark unfamiliar streets.

Back at the hotel, in between heavy open-mouthed kisses, he suggested that maybe they should just flip a coin, get the damn thing over with, but Rick said no, absolutely not, and when he asked why, Rick said cos it implied there was a winner and a loser, and that wasn’t how this worked. _First time, I want you to fuck me_ Rick said, and Daryl, who had gone into this thing secretly terrified that Rick just wanted him to bend over, found himself saying _Nah, how bout you fuck me tonight_? And they argued again, him suggesting maybe now they oughta flip the coin for the other thing. Rick laughed and laughed _you always gonna be this difficult in bed, you sonuvabitch?_ and then he said, “Daryl, as your manager I order you to stick your dick in my ass,” and he always listened when Rick used that tone of voice, he’d follow that voice anywhere.

Course he couldn’t just _stick it in_ , other stuff had to happen first. All his awareness concentrated in his fingertips, exploring inside Rick. Warm, so satiny smooth. Licking and sucking at his balls, too, while he was down there, he’d found Rick liked that, and he relied on instinct for the rest.

“Why d’ya trust me so much?” he murmured as he lined his cock up with Rick’s entrance, stretched and ready for him.

“Just do,” Rick said. “Now c’mon, whenever you’re –”

He was ready. Got the angle wrong at first and skidded right out, prompting an undignified snort from Rick. He grimaced, but he was too turned on to be properly embarrassed, just kissed Rick’s laughing mouth and repositioned himself. And this time – god, yes, it was finally happening – he sank deeper and deeper til there was nowhere left to go and his hips were flush with Rick’s.

He braced himself on his forearms and looked down at Rick. “You okay?” he said, and his voice cracked a little.

Rick reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. His eyes were so very blue, the kind of color you got lost in, and the habitual frown between his brows had melted away. “Yeah. Are you?”

He nodded, shook his head, nodded again. Being like this, it was overwhelming, he was transported out of himself and into Rick, if he could only stay here forever, never go back…

“Daryl?”

An ocean of concern in those blue eyes, and he slipped back into his own body again. Desire like a heat wave left him panting. His cock jumped deep inside Rick, and an answer was probably unnecessary but he gave one anyway. “Yeah. I’m okay,” he rasped. “Can I…?”

“Please,” Rick said, and he sounded so hungry that Daryl just had to start moving, slow and tentative at first, then faster and faster until their bodies were slapping together, probably loud enough to rouse the dead. He grabbed Rick by the hips and folded him near in half, thrusting desperately into that tight heat and Rick was groaning his name like a litany and scratching his back bloody with frantic clutching fingers. _This_ he realized in a flash of understanding _this_ was what people wrote songs about, why they were so brokenhearted when it ended.

After they’d cleaned up some, Rick cracked his spine and said, looking carefully at the wall, “Want me to go?”

“Want ya ta _stay_ ,” he said firmly. The hotel bed was big and comfortable, a damn sight softer than anything he had back home. He’d be drowning in it, without Rick’s back glued to his chest. Wouldn’t think he’d like it, all that damp naked flesh pressed together, but he kind of did, cos it was Rick’s skin on his.

 

xxx

 

They woke to the _ding_ of Rick’s iPhone; light sleepers, the both of them. “You’ll love this,” Rick said, looking pleased, and passed him the phone. It was a brief from the record company, saying a group of Jamaican musicians had recorded a dub version of the song (him and Michonne’s tune, that was) and there was an invitation to play in Kingston the following month. He kissed Rick like a stupid schoolgirl, he’d never been out of the country and now he was going to fucking _Jamaica_ ( _Bob Jimmy Cliff Desmond Dekker Millie Small Peter Tosh_ ), and they listened to the dub remix on Rick’s phone and it was so damn good, song probably shoulda been written that way in the first place. He was hard for Rick again, and he could feel the other man stiffening against his leg, but then Michonne let herself in to share the same news and the cat was officially out of the bag, that they were fucking now.

Michonne was almost _too_ damn comfortable with it; she crawled onto the bed to join them, never mind they were both naked and Daryl was casting longing glances at the pants he’d discarded some feet away. They listened to the dub again, _so damn good_ , and Rick was wondering if they’d get to record in Studio One like the Rolling Stones and The Clash had done when they visited. Apparently Scratch Perry was a fan…

He was riding such a high he hardly bitched when they had to go straight to a photoshoot that morning. Michonne and Tara had to change into some fancy couture (he called it _cooter_ to make Tara laugh, but the fashion assistant looked at him like he’d grown an extra head). Him and Glenn got to keep their own clothes, good thing too or he probably woulda thrown a fit. Another assistant dumped all sorts of goop in his hair. He knew Rick liked a bit of wax in his hair to tame those leonine waves, and maybe at gunpoint he’d admit to enjoying the scent of it, but this stuff was really foul. Rick gave him a sympathetic smile from across the room, where he was doodling around on his smartphone. _Pick your battles_ that smile said, so he clenched his jaw and bore up.

The photographer, a twerp with stupid glasses and a stupid moustache, started asking him about his fitness routine. “Spend a lotta time outside, ’s all,” he grunted. To his right, Glenn was having some makeup daubed on his face while he flinched and grimaced. _Help me_ he mouthed at Daryl, but the damage was done and some black stuff had been smeared round his eyes, making him look like, well, “a Chinese raccoon,” he snickered, and Glenn flipped him off. “Absolutely _not_ ,” he said, when the makeup artist approached him, and she quailed under his glare and scurried away.

“So Daryl,” said the photographer, sidling up to him like they were friends, “why don’t you take off your shirt for the first set of pictures?”

“Don’t think so, buddy,” he said breezily, this wasn’t the first time photographers had tried to serve him and Glenn up like slabs of meat.

“Don’t be so modest,” the photographer told him. “I’m sure you’ve got a _terrif_ set of abs and pecs to match those famous arms.”

 _Famous arms_? “Nope,” he said, more firmly. “Aint gonna happen.”

“It would be _hella_ sexy,” the photog insisted. “Yeah, lemme see –” And then he was behind Daryl, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt, and _hell no_ there were scars under there that nobody but Michonne and Rick got to see, evidence that his old man had whupped him over and over til the skin didn’t come back as _skin_ anymore - … and scratches, too, Rick had mauled him with his nails mere hours ago and he’d _loved_ it but that was _private_ , wasn’t for some nosy bastard’s camera lens. _Sorry Rick_ he thought fleetingly, he’d gotten so much better at controlling his temper, but the knuckles of his right hand were destined for the bridge of those stupid fucking glasses –

“Get your hands off my drummer,” Rick said, and his voice was terrifying. Quiet, menacing. Daryl turned and the look in Rick’s eyes, he hadn’t seen that look since Rick split with Shane (and Lori too, for that matter), and he almost felt sorry for the photographer but he didn’t cos that fucker deserved what was coming. “How fucking dare you?” Rick said, and it was so matter-of-fact he could have been remarking on the weather, except his eyes were cold enough to sublimate air into ice.

“Okay, Jesus.” The photog laughed nervously. “It was just an idea, dude, no need to get so worked up.”

Just then Michonne and Tara marched into the studio, still in their civvies. “We’re not wearing these,” Michonne said, dumping a bundle of silks and lace on the floor. “They’re too revealing, and completely out of step with the band’s image. You can photograph us in our own clothes, or –”

“They didn’t fit anyway,” Tara added. “My boobs busted right through, sorry about that.”

“You _what_ \- ?” the fashion lady was squawking, but Rick interrupted.

“I think we’re done here,” he said smoothly. “This is a fucking disgrace, and my band doesn’t need _Harper’s Bazaar_ to sell out a show.”

Out in the street below, the others roared with laughter. “ _This is a fucking disgrace_ ,” Glenn parroted, like he could hardly believe it, and Tara stuck her hand out to Rick for a fist bump. “That was _so_ badass,” she said. But Rick was looking at Daryl, and something chilling and alien was still blazing in those blue eyes. He bumped his shoulder against Rick’s, the man was practically shooting off sparks, and flattened his palm against his side, just below the heart that was so thunderously pounding. It was as if Rick, the real Rick, had up and vanished somewhere, leaving behind some kind of – he didn’t know what, but the Rick that was not Rick was vibrating with lethal energy too powerful for the fragile husk of his body to contain. So he stepped closer and brought their foreheads together. “Hey, Rick,” he said, the rest of the world and all the people in it falling away, “Hey, Rick. ’M fine, kay? Ya did good, an’ it’s over now.” Rick sucked in a shallow breath. “That’s it,” he said. “C’mon back with me now, yeah?” Rick exhaled and slowly, ever so slowly, the tension seeped out of his body and he was looking at Daryl with _Rick_ ’s eyes again. “Thanks for havin my back,” he said, and snorted at his own stupid pun. “Literally.” Rick nodded jerkily, and ever so briefly his head sagged down to rest on Daryl’s shoulder. Then he was back to himself.

“Lunch!” he said loudly, making the others jump; they’d been staring at the pair of them with a kind of shocked fascination. Well, not Michonne, her narrowed eyes flicked from one to the other with something like understanding; she offered Rick a brief smile and chimed in, “I’m starving! On you, Rick?”

“Company card,” Rick said airily. “Doubt anyone’ll notice.”

So they had burgers and shakes and he sat next to Rick, their legs pressed together. Nobody mentioned what had just happened and nobody commented that maybe it wasn’t Daryl who had the worst temper, after all. Glenn and Tara were a little quiet, but Michonne was uncharacteristically chatty and kept up a patter of conversation, and then Maggie, Rosita and Eugene joined them and everyone got noisy again. Rick leaned close, lips brushing his ear, and he shivered. _We good_? Rick asked; he nodded. He wasn’t the hand-holding type but he did pat Rick’s hand once, twice, where it sat on his knee under the table. Rick looked at him, brows raised, and he shrugged. They both chuckled.

 

xxx

 

After lunch him and Rick Facetimed with Carl on Rick’s iPhone. Carl had seen some of last night’s gig on YouTube and was full of questions _did you really do two encores? Daryl, how come you wore a glove, was it like a Michael Jackson thing?_ Then it was back to the hotel for a press conference thingy, but at least it was outside in a little patio area and he could smoke. They fielded the questions as usual, Michonne taking the lead and Glenn chiming in, Tara supplying the humor and him hoping that if he generated a big enough cloud of smoke no one would see him sitting there at the end of the table.

Some journalist wearing a zoot suit and saying he was from _Spin_ magazine tried to lowball them. “You started out in an Atlanta basement,” he said, “gaining a local following and achieving underground success. Through all that you’ve claimed to abide by the same punk ethos you began with, but obviously having a hit single changes the game. So tell me, what, to your band, constitutes a sellout?”

Michonne opened her mouth to say something intelligent, but suddenly he was fanning away the smoke and leaning over table. “So ya say you’re gonna play a show, right?” he said. “Then a bunch a folks turn up, right, an’ they all buy some tickets. Til there aint no more tickets left an’ ya got a cancellation line. I’d say that constitutes a sellout.”

Everyone laughed and there was even some scattered applause. He slouched back in his chair, trying to appear apathetic, _punk_ , but he couldn’t help looking for Rick, who winked at him from the sidelines. He smirked back. So maybe he was inbred white trash; he still had his moments.

The second show was just as explosive as the first, with a small interruption in the middle. From her position at the front Michonne saw a drunk guy elbow a girl in the face, and she stopped mid-song to call him out. Their shows got kinda rough sometimes, and it was like a contract they had with the audience, keeping an eye on things from the stage and breaking up fights where they had to. In the early days, when he kept a bottle of Jack stashed behind the drum kit, he’d be crashing into the audience near-on every night, fists flying, usually into the fat guts of bouncers cos they were bullies and the kids just wanted to have fun. But Rick wasn’t such a fan of that approach so now he tended to let Michonne handle things. And after a few minutes they were back on track, starting the song again from the top and sprinting through. They were like four sticks of dynamite when they really hit their groove.

After, him and Rick went back to the hotel like they had the previous night. “Kay,” he said, stripping economically and collapsing on the bed. “Get over here.”

Rick crawled up between his legs and made short work of prepping him as he growled and cursed a blue streak into the pillow, because _fucking hell._ “Gonna show me what it’s all about, then?” he challenged breathlessly. On his front, on his knees, against the wall, he hardly cared at that point, but Rick very tenderly laid him out on his back so they could look at each other, and then yeah, Rick showed him what it was all about. Difficult and foreign at first, it made his nose itch and he sneezed several times in rapid succession. But slowly his body grew accustomed to the feel of Rick’s cock and all his muscles unclenched in a juddering spasm of relief.

“Reckon I see what the fuss is about,” he conceded later. “Reckon I like both ways.”

“We’re just getting started,” Rick told him with a grin that could only be described as predatory, and that was slightly alarming cos _how many ways could there possibly be_ , but fuck it, he was game.

They woke up in the middle of the night to do it again. It was like their subconscious minds had synchronized on some primal wavelength – he came to with his dick stiff and leaking and not a second later Rick was rolling into him, _want you_.

“Daryl.” Rick was shaking his shoulder roughly, and what the hell, since when did Rick wake up before him? He cracked an eye open; it was only the stony grey of predawn trickling through the blinds.

“Whasamatter?” he said, blinking away sleep. Rick sat on the edge of the bed in his boxers, gripping his iPhone with white-knuckled hands. “Shit,” he said, beginning to feel more alert, “who died?”

“I just want you to know I’m taking care of it,” Rick said, a strange expression on his face. “I’ve already sent a dozen emails and it should be down within the hour, but…” He shook his head slightly and passed Daryl the phone.

He squinted at the screen, some sort of gossip site, and slowly the headline came into focus. His stomach plummeted.

**_Exclusive: We Don’t Die Drummer Daryl Dixon’s Troubled Past  
_ ** _A tragic fire, a broken home, an incarcerated brother: the real story of punk’s most reclusive beat-keeper_

He skimmed through and they had most of it right, damn them. His ma, burning down the house with her in it; the old man’s regular lockups for drunk and disorderly til his death from liver failure; Merle’s arrest for armed robbery and how he was currently enjoying the government’s hospitality down at state.

“Well,” he said, numb and cold. Mechanically he pushed back the sheet and got out of bed. He pulled on his jeans and his fingers, when he did up the button, were quite steady. “That’s it, enit?” he said dully, and the voice that emerged was quite unlike his own. “’M out.”

“Where are you going?” Rick was standing too.

“Fuck knows.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Tell em, tell the others I’m sorry, but I’m fucken done.”

“Don’t leave,” Rick said urgently, pleadingly, and that was the fucking limit.

He sent last night’s room service tray crashing to the floor. The clatter of utensils, breaking glass – it was satisfying but it wasn’t enough so he dragged the hotel phone off the hook and chucked it at the wall. “ _Fuck_ the fucken band,” he said, and it was in that same cold, level voice even though his breathing came rough and ragged. “Couldn’t give two shits bout any of it.” He caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. His eyes were mean little slits and his pants sat low on his hips and there was a white streak of somebody’s cum across his stomach. The sight of it incensed him and Rick was too slow to stop him from slamming his fist into the mirror, blood and shards of glass everywhere, he didn’t feel a damn thing. There was jeering laughter in his ears and it was like that movie _Carrie_ him and Tara watched last week, _they’re all gonna laugh at you._

Two pairs of arms round him now, where had the second pair come from? Rick and Michonne, somehow Michonne was there too, they were dragging him away from the mirror and holding him fast. They should’ve known better than to touch him; he delivered a good ol fashioned haymaker that knocked Rick sideways, but Michonne, she gripped like a python and then Rick was back and between the two of them they overpowered him, he _let_ them overpower him, because Rick’s face was swelling and he’d gotten blood all over Michonne’s white shirt. Rick held him from behind and Michonne sat on his knees and they stayed like that for a long time, panting heavily.

“You need stitches,” Michonne said at last, and when she brushed sweaty hair off his forehead he flinched but stayed put. Rick’s fingers were still laced tightly across his chest, like they were trying to hold his heart in.

“’M fine,” he said dully.

“Maggie has EMT training,” Rick said. “Would you let her clean you up?”

“Fine.” His head thudded back against Rick’s shoulder. “But not right now.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Michonne said in her rich deep voice and he remembered her singing that song he liked at soundcheck yesterday _ooh child things are gonna get easier._ “Who gives a damn what anyone thinks?”

“Doesn’t change a thing.” That was Rick.

“We’re here,” Michonne said simply.

The fog was lifting and he realized his hand was throbbing like a motherfucking bitch. “Shit,” he said. “How’m I sposed ta hold a drum stick now?”

They beamed at him.

 

_Three Weeks Later…_

Late to a session in their Atlanta studio, he’d been fucking Rick in the bathroom cos that was the kind of sordid shit you got up to when you were in a band. Both re-entering the studio a little worse for wear, his shirt was missing a button and Rick had a bruise on his neck.

The past three weeks hadn’t been easy, not by anyone’s estimation. The backlash had been immediate, a flurry of specious articles claiming he was a drug addict, he’d been in and out of rehab, he spent most of his childhood in juvie. But Rick and the PR folks handled it; he concentrated on keeping his head down and drumming with a left hand that had swollen up like a Christmas ham. And slowly the storm passed over; press musta found some other poor sonuvabitch to string up.

“ _Fi_ -nally!” Tara sang, and Glenn gave them a disgruntled look from where he sat tuning his guitar. Only Michonne was unperturbed, her fingers ghosting over the piano keys.

Rick camped out in the booth with the engineer, scanning his smartphone and doing whatever it was he did that made him look so busy and important. From time to time their eyes met through the glass and the look on Rick’s face made him want to drag him into the bathroom for another round.

Trying to stay focused, he stalked over to Michonne at the piano. Pulled a crumpled napkin from his pocket and thrust it at her. “I, um…”

“Lyrics?” she said eagerly, squinting at his illegible scrawl.

“A couple,” he said, and squeezed next to her on the bench. “Bit of a tune, lotsa those whaddayacallems…” He played a couple quick chords.

“Staccatos,” Michonne supplied.

“Yeah, them.” He thumped out a few more notes.

“One of these days I’ll teach you how to play a piano without murdering it,” she said, but she had that faraway look in her eyes telling him their new tune was already happening in her head. So he banged out his chords til she had it down, even adding a bit more melody with the right hand. And what gibberish he’d scribbled in the middle of the night slowly began to sound like _something_ in Michonne’s rich, husky voice.

“ _Hearin this song like rubber on a turn_

_Fifty-seven records that ya know ya oughta burn_

_Garbageman don’t care for the blues or rock’n’roll_

_It’s five o’clock in the mornin in a coffee shop in Seoul_ –”

“What the _fuck_!” Glenn exclaimed. “Dudes, that’s rad. _Weird_ , but rad.”

“Where did that even come from?” said Tara. “It’s like some next-level Bob Dylan shit, that last line, the coffee shop in –”

“Needed sumthin that rhymed with ‘rock’n’roll,’” he muttered, flushing, cos he didn’t know where the fuck it’d come from either.

“And the first thing you thought of was ‘coffee shop in Seoul?’” Glenn shook his head disbelievingly. “Man, you haven’t been holding out on us, all these years?”

“Nah, course not –”

All the small changes that seemed like nothing on their own, they had accumulated into something seismic and transformative. Holding Michonne’s son, learning how to change a diaper. Visiting Merle in prison _heard you was sellin records, baby bro_ and was that a hint of _pride_ in Merle’s voice? Rick’s kids taking to him so easily and instantly – teaching Carl how to track a deer, spinning Asskicker in his arms til she screamed with delight. Fucking with Glenn and making Tara laugh. Falling asleep next to Michonne cos they couldn’t stay awake all night like they had when they were younger. Looking at Rick and not understanding what was happening to him or why –

So he was a late-bloomer. He’d got there eventually, hadn’t he?

“Jus’ never bothered tryin before,” he said.

“Well, shit.” Tara stuck out her fist, and he bumped it back with his own. “Rock on.”

He looked at Michonne, and her eyes were so deep and knowing that he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

Back at Rick’s for the night, leaning in to kiss him soon as the door slammed shut behind them. Far as he was concerned, kissing was almost as private as fucking. Which happened next, dropping to the floor cos suddenly the bed seemed too far away. _Christ what’s happening to me_ he felt almost unbearably light, like he could float away, straddling Rick there on the floor… But there was the scrape of stubble, the burn and pulse as he raised and lowered himself, Rick’s muscles quivering as he tried to hold back but soon slamming up into him anyway, rough just the way he wanted it. No mistaking, that was real as it came. “You feel fucking perfect,” Rick gasped out, and he smirked down at him. Course he did; he’d always had perfect tempo.

**Author's Note:**

> Also inspired by N(T)H, happy bday J(JS)M and thx for the napkin tunes.
> 
> This was a little off the beaten path for me, so I'd love to hear your feedback. Please, talk to me!


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